Thirty Three Percent
by iolre
Summary: He steepled his fingers underneath his chin, ready to return his focus to the problem at hand, when he heard the movement of the boy in the bed across from him. It was the sixth time he had turned over in the past five minutes and Sherlock was nearly at the end of his patience. "Will you stop doing that," he hissed. "Sorry. I just can't sleep."


A/N: Part 11 of my 100 Themes of Johnlock pieces. Posted both here and on my original themes-based account. Shameless, teenage Johnlock AU fluff.

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He steepled his fingers underneath his chin, ready to return his focus to the problem at hand, when he heard the movement of the boy in the bed across from him. It was the sixth time he had turned over in the past five minutes and Sherlock was nearly at the end of his patience. "Will you stop doing that," he hissed.

The other boy winced so loudly that Sherlock could hear it from across the room. "Sorry," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. "I just can't sleep."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, staring up at the ceiling. The room fell silent again, and he could not help but feel hopeful about the remainder of the night. He had been sharing a dormitory room with John Watson for the better part of a week and already he was consumed with ideas of how to force the blonde-haired teen to leave forever. Too bad he was unable to gain access to the various chemicals and animals he needed to put his plans into action. It was a matter of time, however, for he had blackmailed his older brother with pictures of his escapades with a particular member of the police force and said older brother had dutifully agreed to provide the aforementioned materials.

He had just settled into his mind palace when he heard the noise that indicated that John was rolling over again. Exhaling in a huff, he removed his fingers from their steepled position and shot an irritated glare in John's direction. "Can you not sit still?" Sherlock snapped. He watched as John pulled his duvet off and walked into the small area that served them as a kitchen. He was obviously sleepy, for his face was drawn and he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. The blonde-haired teen turned on the small kettle and made a mug of tea for himself, sitting in the flimsy chair that he liked and sipping from the mug after he fixed the drink with milk and a small bit of sugar.

"Don't be a bastard," John muttered, sipping his mug gratefully, his fingers wrapped around the warmth. Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, reading what he could out of the teenager's expression and body language.

"You have nightmares." It was a statement, not a question, confirmed by the way John's body tensed up at Sherlock's words. "You're afraid to go to sleep."

John stared blankly down at his tea for a few seconds before he sighed, the tension seeping out of his muscles. "Yeah. Yeah I do," he confirmed, his voice defeated. Sherlock had not moved his gaze from the other boy and he continued watching for a few seconds more. Despite Sherlock's intention (prompt John into shutting up and going to sleep), it instead seemed to prompt a different behavior. "My Mum tried to kill me," he said quietly. Sherlock groaned internally and rolled his eyes. Sentiment. Of bloody course. "Stabbed me in the shoulder, six months ago. Harry got a cut in the stomach."

Sherlock tried to think what implement could kill him the quickest and was the closest to him. He absolutely detested conversations of the sort and he had the feeling that once John got started, he would not stop. "It's post traumatic stress disorder," John said with a shrug. "I know, you don't care." The curly-haired man agreed wholeheartedly with John's words, but Mycroft had informed him several times that those kind of comments were generally sarcastic and it was beneficial to not respond with an affirmative. Instead he made a noncommittal noise, shifting slightly on the sheets of his own bed.

Mycroft had insisted on removing the sofa Sherlock had smuggled in. Who cared that it impeded John's access to his bed? They all needed to make sacrifices for science. Despite that, Mycroft had gone to the head of Sherlock's dorm and when Sherlock had returned from his classes the sofa had been gone. That combined with the numerous lectures he had received had increased Sherlock's determination to slip a toad into his brother's bed next time he was home. Nonetheless, the nearest holiday was all too far away, and he had other problems to solve. Like that of the boy who was staring morosely at the cup of tea.

"Lay in bed," Sherlock said brusquely.

"Why?" John muttered, draining the last dregs of the cup. "There's no point if you're just going to keep yelling."

"I do not yell," Sherlock reminded him, a hint of sharpness to his voice. He never yelled, he merely pointed things out. Loudly. As John sighed his agreement and stuck the mug in the sink, Sherlock stood up and searched for what he wanted. John got back into bed, the cotton of his pyjamas silent as he slid under the cotton sheets. "Do close your eyes, John."

"Least you're using my name now," John mumbled. He even sounded sleepy, yet somehow his body would not give him the release he needed so he could drift off into sleep.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was searching for where he had last sat his violin case. Mycroft had insisted on him bringing it to the sodden school and now he could not find it. "Be quiet," he murmured, lowering his voice to the pitch he had discovered worked quite well to calm others down. It seemed to work, over the next few minutes, for John was a third less restless than he had been moments prior. It was something Sherlock would remember for the future.

He hummed, pleased, when he finally found his violin, pulling the case out from underneath the pile of books it had been supporting. There was a minor crash and he glanced around to ensure that no one had heard it, ignoring John's wide and blinking eyes. No yelling, no shouting - Sherlock was safe. He sat the violin case on his bed and pulled the instrument out, tuning it softly. The bow was still well taken care of from when he had last used it - which was beneficial, for it had been weeks since Sherlock had been so inspired.

"Lay down and close your eyes," he said softly, the rich, baritone cadence of his voice caressing the syllables. It was delightful how quickly that worked, for John immediately seemed to melt into the bed. Now for the final challenge. Settling the violin on his shoulder, Sherlock's mind flipped through his mental list of compositions. He settled on a soothing melody.

Sherlock did not notice that he hummed along with the music as it spilled from the violin, nor did he notice how he swayed as he played, his arms making sweeping motions as he stroked the bow across the strings. He did not notice John's utter captivation with his performance, absorbed in the music as both boys were. By the time Sherlock had finished playing, John had practically melted into the bed and was fast asleep, his face slack and peaceful, and Sherlock felt oddly at peace. It was a feeling he had never experienced, and it was not something he was comfortable with.

Staring down at John Watson, Sherlock attempted to figure out what was so different with this man. He had played for others before, serenaded the odd person to sleep or into a trance when they would not leave him alone. But none had ever affected him as this quiet, unassuming boy was doing so. His heart felt like it was full to bursting with a contentment that seemed to lie so close to his bones that it was indistinguishable, like a marrow that existed outside of the hollow of the skeletal system.

Deciding to set the thoughts and feelings aside for later examination, he paused, looking over at the boy on the other side of the room. "Good night," he murmured, settling into his bed. Sherlock slept deeply, the first time in a long time.


End file.
